Wake
by Eledhwen1
Summary: An extension of my 'Meaning of Mourning' vignette. Slash. Complete


TITLE: Wake 

AUTHOR: Eledhwen 

PAIRING: SS/RL 

RATING: PG-13 

FEEDBACK: angel_eledhwen@hotmail.com 

DISCLAIMER: JKR's, not mine. 

I never was able to understand why I loved him. 

I looked at him first because he was beautiful, at least to me. I noticed him because he was youthful – not young – and vivid. I wanted him because he was kind and careful and thoughtful, even to me. I resented him because I thought he betrayed me. I hurt him so he could be with the one I thought he loved. 

Later he said he loved me. I loved him. Too long, too hidden. We had so little time. 

Perhaps I loved him because all he was belonged to the Light, yet the Darkness lived always under his skin, my complement. Perhaps I loved him because he saw me. Perhaps I loved him for the knowledge that he defied even his closest friend because he wanted me. Perhaps I loved him simply because he wanted me. Perhaps to know would have made me complacent, removed the mystery, given no reason to stay, to wonder. Perhaps, perhaps. No more. I'll never know, now. 

The news came today. The Headmaster called the school together in the Great Hall, told us he had some sad news to share. Perhaps I ought to be able to say that I felt a premonitory chill run up my spine, but I felt nothing except the sense of vague worry that had been with me ever since he left for the summer. 

Solemnly, he began, the familiar twinkle muted. "Many of you will remember Professor Lupin, who was the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher here four years ago and again last year." 

Last year, when at long last we managed to understand each other. More than twenty years apart is a very long time, especially when you were never really together in the first place, but we contrived, finally, to make something of what time we had. Last year, I was content. Then, desperate for allies, the Ministry called on him to attempt to liaise with the werewolves as Hagrid had tried with the giants. They should have learned from that. They will never learn. 

Of course he agreed. He would not have been the man he was, otherwise. 

I have been expecting this since July. July, the last time I saw him. Not even an owl since then. Too dangerous, they said. No communication except with his contact. Neither of us liked it, but we understood how it works. 

"Early this morning I received an owl from the Ministry. He was killed last night by a group of werewolves while attempting to carry out a dangerous mission for the war effort." Albus has never believed in hiding the fact that we are at war from the children. "He will be missed and mourned." 

The new first-years, just three months into their schooling, look on in bemusement as a significant portion of their schoolmates succumb to the beckoning temptation of sorrow. The Gryffindors are shocked, subdued, tearful. Many of the Hufflepuffs are openly weeping. Even a few of my Slytherins look distraught. He was easily loved, despite his darkness, or because of it. 

I need not look over at the boy, in his final year now. I already know what I would see there. Sometimes I wonder at his reasons. 

My face has fallen into the old mask, I know. I will not show emotion here. He deserves better than mindless, thoughtless, insincere weeping from those who barely knew him. Who saw his darkness as something to be hidden, overlooked, in favour of his light. I will mourn him as he deserves – in the darkness and silence, with memories and perhaps a single tear. Without regrets and might-have-beens, with appreciation instead. 

I turn and walk out, leaving the children – and my colleagues – to prop each other up in their imagined grief. In a month, perhaps two, the majority will have forgotten him, as they forgot Hagrid who went before. The pupils come and go like the tide and soon there will be few remaining who remember that once Remus Lupin, werewolf, man, or simply Remus, taught here. 

I will remember.

I reach my dungeon finally, casting a reasonably vicious locking spell as a precaution in addition to my standard wards. Of course, Albus will know better than to bother me but others may not. I seat myself, the chair he claimed opposite me. From a cupboard I summon the scotch and two glasses. I pour out liberal measures, for myself and for his memory. It is too dark in here. The fire is lit with a word. 

Reaching for my glass, I down its contents. The alcohol burns its way down my throat, as the news burnt into my heart. It has been too long since I did something like this. I lift his glass and pour the contents into the leaping flames, a libation to him and to the nameless gods who chose to end his life. Honour them, though they are cruel. Honour him, for he was not. Magic, the fire offers no reaction. Sybill would see that as an omen, no doubt. 

A second glass, and a third, follow in similar fashion. One for me, one for him. I keep a wake for him, in his company. I have drunk enough that the burning has subsided to a welcome numbness. Enough that when I look over at his chair, I half-expect to see him there, his eyes smiling at me. 

"Sorrow, on my account, Severus?" he'd say. "Why, I had no idea I meant that much to you." His face would remain solemn, but his eyes… The tiredness would be gone, leaving only the laughter. 

I'd kiss him, to shut him up and bring the laughter to his mouth when I freed him. Then… 

Enough. That is not the purpose of tonight. Another drink to get my mind on track. For every drink, a memory. 

Ridiculously easy to remember everything, even with my mind fogged with alcohol. The first time I saw him, on a station platform. The first time we spoke. The night I dreamed of him. That night, in the Shack. The day he returned to teach. 

"Why, Severus, I never realised you were so much of a romantic inside." The laughter clear now. 

"It's all your fault." I revert to childishness. 

"It's always my fault." He looks downcast, laughter all gone. 

Apologise, before you ruin everything! "I'm sorry." It dawns on me that I'm having a conversation with a figment of my imagination. 

Perhaps drinks were the wrong decision. Nothing else would help me to cope. Nothing else did, when he left the last time, despite the fact that I was the agent of his departure. I can barely remember how I coped after the Shack. Denial, probably. Resentment. Something close to hatred. 

How is it possible to love someone you hate, hate someone you love? I have never been able to understand emotions. They are a mystery, like him, that I would give a great deal to solve. 

"You want to solve me like a jigsaw puzzle?" 

"You're not real."

"If you believe me, I am." 

No. I won't do this. 

I know he's not a ghost. The figure I can almost-see, if I allow myself to try, is solid seeming, as real as I. It means he is simply in my mind. Am I going insane? No matter. I doubt that any will notice. 

I sit, silent, with the memory of my lover around me. No more drinks, just him and me, the shadows and fire. We'll sit here for a while, and remember. 


End file.
